


Congestion

by spinnerofyarns



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Cold, Established Relationship, Francis has BPD, Francis is a melodramatic little shit, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:15:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinnerofyarns/pseuds/spinnerofyarns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis has a cold and is his usual melodramatic self. Richard takes care of him. Set long after the events of TSH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Congestion

**Author's Note:**

> I had a cold and apparently gave it to Francis.

Francis started feeling ill around noon on Thursday.

By the time Richard came home at 6 PM, Francis had already called in sick to work for the next day (and, preemptively, the following Monday) - not that he ever did anything when he was there - and was curled up on the couch in his favorite pajamas and fluffiest robe, surrounded by crumpled tissues.

“Francis?” Richard called from the doorway of their apartment. “Francis, I’m home, and I brought those dumplings you like…”

Francis answered with a weak cough, pulling himself up to peer blearily over the armrest of the couch at Richard as he walked into the kitchen holding two large takeout containers. Catching sight of Francis, Richard dropped the containers on the counter and walked over to sit on the couch at Francis’s feet.

“Have you been like that all day?” he asked.

Francis shook his head. “I got home at 2,” he said, and coughed again.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Richard said, pushing Francis’s ginger curls back from his forehead. “You’re burning up. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Francis nodded weakly and sank back into the couch cushions. Richard returned with a large steaming mug of Earl Grey, and a thermometer, which Francis stuck in his mouth. He sat there, thermometer in his mouth, while Richard swept his used tissues into a trash can.

The thermometer beeped and Richard took it out and squinted at it. “101. I’m going to get you some Tylenol in a minute, okay?” He ran his hand through Francis’s hair and Francis leaned into the touch, glad to have someone taking care of him.

True to his word, Richard returned about a minute later with a glass of water and two pills, which Francis gladly accepted. “I could only find the nighttime ones,” Richard said, getting a pillow and blanket from the linen closet and lifting Francis’s head to tuck the pillow underneath him, “but given how badly you’ve been sleeping lately that might be a good thing.” Francis opened his mouth to respond, but ended up having a sneezing fit. Richard kissed the top of his head. “Sleep well, darling.”

* * *

On Friday, Francis felt even worse.

“I’m dying, Richard,” he moaned as Richard got dressed for work.

“No you’re not. It’s just a cold, you’ll be okay.” Richard replied, tying his tie.

“This isn’t a cold, Richard. I’ve had colds. This is fucking bronchitis or pleurisy or - ah-choo! - cancer or something.”

Richard, sensing that a full-on Francis freakout was imminent, walked over to the couch and put both of his hands on Francis’s shoulders, gently pushing the other into a reclining position on the couch. “Francis, don’t be so dramatic. You will be fine. Just drink plenty of fluids and take Tylenol every 6 hours or so.”

Francis made a noise of protest but Richard shushed him. “Which one of us was pre-med? Oh, right, not you. Trust me.”

Francis sighed, then coughed again. “All right, I guess.”

“Now, if you feel significantly worse - if the pills don’t bring your fever down or if you develop some new symptoms - call me. I have a meeting before my first lecture so I have to run now. You’ll be okay. I love you.”

“Love - ah-choo! - love you too,” Francis said.

“Have a good day, dear. Feel better.” Richard said, and left. Francis stared at the door for a few minutes after Richard had gone, like a sad desperate puppy hoping its master would return. Then he curled up on the couch, turned the TV on, and clicked through channels, finally settling on a Gilmore Girls re-run marathon.

* * *

Richard came home to find Francis in the same position as he’d left him, though with a larger pile of tissues around him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Awful,” Francis said, and coughed. “Miserable. Suffering.”

“How’s the fever?”

“Down to 99.5 last time I checked. But I really think I’m dying. I can barely breathe through my nose and I ache all over.”

Richard sighed. “That’s normal. Have you eaten anything?”

“I tried to eat the dumplings from last night but my throat hurts too much for real food.”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “You’re a far better cook than I am, surely you could have made some soup.”

“Yes, but I’m probably contagious and I don’t want you to catch whatever I have. Only one of us should suffer.”

Richard shook his head. “You’re such a drama queen. Do you want me to make some vegetable soup? I think we have carrots and potatoes and celery and some other stuff in the fridge…”

Francis nodded weakly, his attention returning to the television, where Rory was once again going toe to toe with Paris.

When Richard brought the soup, in Francis’s favorite bowl - white with blue flowers - Francis shoved a used tissue at him, looking more panicked than ever.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Richard asked.

“I think my brain has liquefied, and it’s coming out of my nose. Look! Don’t you see some grey matter on there?”

Richard almost laughed. “Francis, darling, if your brain had liquefied you wouldn’t be thinking or talking or doing much of anything. You know that. All that’s on this tissue is mucus - gross, by the way - and some blood,” Francis yelped “but that’s only cause you popped a capillary or something, blowing your nose too hard. Oh, yep, there it goes. Just - Francis! Calm down! Just tilt your head back, I’ll get some peroxide to stop it.”

“I’m not putting that up my nose!” Francis yelled, tilting his head back with a wad of tissue under his nose.

“Yes you are, that’s how you stop the bleeding.” Richard yelled back, rummaging through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He returned with a bottle of peroxide and a cotton swab, which he dipped in the bottle and shove unceremoniously up Francis’s left nostril.

Francis sat on the couch, looking indignant. “Cad I at least hab by cigarettes?”

“No!” Richard exclaimed, fighting back a laugh at Francis’s ridiculous - and cute - congested voice. “Listen to yourself. You can barely breathe and you’re coughing fit to hack up a lung already. You’ll be better without them.”

“But Richard, I’b dyig. Let be hab od last glorious cigarette before I die.” Francis sprawled on the couch in a dramatic suffering-invalid pose.

“Francis, you’re not on death row. You have a cold. This happens once a year on average. You’ve had a 100% survival rate thus far. Christ, you weren’t half so dramatic when we were about to go to jail for actual murder. Calm down and eat your soup before it gets cold.”

“Cad I hab a gid ad todic thed? Alcohol kills gerbs, right?” Francis asked, still prostrate on the couch.

“No. You’ve been taking acetaminophen, I think that’s enough for your poor liver right now. Eat your damn soup.” Richard said, and left the room, leaving Francis on the couch alone with his thoughts.

And as always, anxiety crept in. He’d taken it too far, he was a burden and Richard was mad at him. Richard hated him. Everyone hated him. He was worthless. Useless. Pathetic. Maybe it would be better if this illness, whatever it was, killed him. Or if he killed himself. Richard returned half an hour later to find Francis curled into a fetal position and sobbing on the couch, the bowl of soup uneaten and cold.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling to be at eye level with Francis.

“Are you angry with me?” Francis whimpered.

“What? No, why would I be?”

“I’b…I’b sorry.” Francis whimpered. “I’b sorry I’b such a b-b-burden.”

Richard sighed. Another panic attack. “Francis, that’s your anxiety talking. I promise you, you’re not a burden. I love you.”

“B-but you’re mad at me.”

“No, I’m not. I promise. I’m sorry for snapping, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. But it’s not your fault. I love you.”

“But you hate me.”

“I don’t. I couldn’t. I could never hate you, Francis. I love you. You aren’t a burden, I swear.”

“Really?”

“Francis, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” Francis sniffled as Richard pulled him into a hug.

“I’m still sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for making you feel like this. Now, should I microwave this for you?” Richard asked, picking up the bowl of soup. Francis nodded, stretching out on the couch once again.

* * *

By Saturday, Francis felt well enough to leave the couch and look for the book he had been reading before he fell ill. Only it wasn’t on the nightstand where he had left it last. “Richard? Have you seen my book?” he called, rifling through the nightstand’s drawers.

“Which book? The poison one?” Richard asked from the kitchen.

“Yeah, that one. I’m almost done with cyanide and I was hoping I’d finish the book today.”

“Oh. Um. I…I borrowed it while you were ill. It’s on my side of the bed. I stuck a Post-It onto the page you’d marked though.”

Francis cringed. “Richard, the glue on those wreaks havoc on paper.” He found the book in Richard’s blanket nest. “And for the love of all that is holy, make your damn bed,” he added, and then doubled over in a coughing fit.

Richard came in from the kitchen looking concerned. “Francis, have you been smoking again?”

“No, it’s my throat.” Speaking of smoking, he was absolutely dying for a cigarette but couldn’t stand to think of the disappointed look on Richard’s face.

Richard scrutinized Francis for a few seconds. “All right. Do you want a cup of tea?” Francis nodded, then coughed again. Richard brought a mug of hot lemon tea with honey to Francis on the couch. “How are you feeling, love?” he asked

“Better, thank you, darling.” Francis answered, taking the tea. “I’m sorry I was such a drama queen.”

“It’s okay,” Richard said, kissing his forehead.

* * *

When Richard came home from work on Monday, Francis was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. In their bedroom, Richard found the bed neatly made and a small box on his pillow with a card attached. Inside the box, he found a pair of elegant silver and mother-of-pearl cufflinks. The card read “I’m sorry for being a burden and ruining your weekend, Love, Francis.”

Richard walked into the kitchen, slid his arms around Francis’s slim waist, and kissed the freckles on the back of his slender elegant neck. “You aren’t a burden, you never could be a burden, and you didn’t ruin my weekend. I love you.” He could feel Francis relaxing against him.

“I love you too,” Francis murmured softly.


End file.
